


maybe your bark can match the bite

by toothpasteumbrella



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, fic of an au of an au..... how deep does it go i dont kmow, no graphic displays of violence ever ever, wreakinghavok's hunger games au lets goooooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25652437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toothpasteumbrella/pseuds/toothpasteumbrella
Summary: He was seven when his Mentor won the games. To him, a boy like that was an idol-- a teenager that strategized beyond his years and fought past pure strength. The boy was quick in his thinking, quick with his words, quick with his execution.By now? The twenty-five-year-old had faded into obscurity.“I really hate to ask this, I should know, but-- what, what was your name? In the arena?”“Promise you won’t laugh,” he joked again, a finger coming up to poke his headphones. “Gamerboy80.”Grayson had to laugh. It was on-brand, wasn’t it? District 3, the home of engineering, technology-- all the advancements in automation and robotics-- it would make sense a tribute would relate. It sounded like a user in one of those video-games. Sickening.
Relationships: none never ever no stoppit
Comments: 8
Kudos: 139
Collections: victors' tower (stories from floor 6)





	1. he sings that he has become comfortably numb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WreakingHavok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/gifts).



> inspired by WreakingHavoc’s floor six fanfic and other contributors that bounced off this au!!   
> there will be absolute NO graphic descriptions of violence or shipping. if anyone feels uncomfortable, at any point of this work, i am happily able to take it down and apologize. 
> 
> heehoo funny bedwars youtubers go brrrrrrrrrrrt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "from me to you" by ferry

The train seat Grayson sat in was uncomfortable at best. 

Blindingly white architecture designed the train-- faultless in it’s creation. The seating was an uninspired plastic with mockingly blue cushioning. Buzzing fluorescent lights bounced off the sheeny walls and glared in the boy’s eyes. Grayson was sure they managed the air-conditioning to make it feel incredibly stuffy. 

Cold, clammy hands wrung together tensed with every fearful thought he had. His leg bounced, back hunched slightly as he stared at a black speck staining the ground. 

Across from him, sitting legs crossed and arms folded, was his Mentor.

The former Victor’s hair color was split evenly in the middle-- a style that had fallen out of fashion some time ago-- with the left being a snowy white and the right a charcoal black. A similar coloration pattern was poked into his eyes; one being red, the other a glittering gold. The boy knew it was contacts. 

Grayson swallowed. The lump in his throat didn’t subside. His eyes flickered in and out of focus, squinting. He felt guilty for not even remembering the Victor’s stage name.

“You’re tense,” his Mentor started, and Grayson could hear the man shuffling and unfolding his hands. “Don’t be.”

Grayson laughed-- it was airy, strained. “That’s-- that’s a lot easier said than done, man.”

He looked up from the ground. The man’s clothing was surprisingly casual (for the Capitol’s standards, at least); a light gray jacket with two white stripes on the sleeves. There was a shimmer on the inside of the jacket, however, and he noticed the glittery shine stretching from his cheeks to the bridge of his nose. Notably, his mentor adorned unpractical headphones.

“Then just don’t _look_ tense,” he said simply, and Grayson didn’t respond.

Silence cloaked them. The distant whirl of the air conditioning sounded, and the boy could hear the muffled rumble of the vehicle moving. 

“How old were you,” Grayson croaked, words barely managing from his throat, “when you were reaped?”

His mentor raised a brow, pausing before he started to count on his fingers. “I swear I’m not this dumb,” he quipped with a smile, squinting at his hands. Grayson was sure it was apart of his brand-- to act casual. To look casual. To speak casually. The comment made his stomach churn. 

“Well, it’s been nine years. I’m twenty-five now, so you can figure out the math there.”

Sixteen. One year older than Grayson.

He was seven when his Mentor won the games. To him, a boy like that was an idol-- a teenager that strategized beyond his years and fought past pure strength. The boy was quick in his thinking, quick with his words, quick with his execution. 

By now? The twenty-five-year-old had faded into obscurity. 

“I really hate to ask this, I should know, but-- what, what was your name? In the arena?”

“Promise you won’t laugh,” he joked again, a finger coming up to poke his headphones. “Gamerboy80.”

Grayson had to laugh. It was on-brand, wasn’t it? District 3, the home of engineering, technology-- all the advancements in automation and robotics-- it would make sense a tribute would relate. It sounded like a user in one of those video-games. Sickening.

His mentor chuckled, too. “Andrew’s a better fit, don’t you think?”

It was a quiet comment, but the faux-humility made Grayson’s fingers twitch.

“You’re name’s Grayson, yeah?” Andrew’s voice started up again. “I’m sure we can play off something there.”

Maybe his Mentor could manage to market this fifteen-year-old into a star.


	2. go out with a whimper, not with a blast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "message lost" by ferry

The wide expanse of the training room didn't cease to take Grayson aback. 

A lot, a _lot,_ of the Capitol was _big._ Humongous skyscrapers, massive windows, vast and deafening crowds; monumental expectations. 

Long gray walls stretched to the ceiling, lights staring at the ground. There were workout stations to the far left of the room-- to the right, spaces where the tile floor dipped into terrain like sand and grass. Ventilation kept the room cold.

Grayson gripped the bow he held onto, plastic and black. It was a weapon that still felt foreign to his hands. 

“You don’t need to master it,” Gamerboy80 had explained, moving Grayson’s hold on the bow with his hands. “You just need to know the basics of each tool. How to use ‘em.”

His Mentor held a small device; plugging the tablet with a cord to display its contents onto a mounted television. Grayson stood a few feet back. 

“I have a few clips of certain weapons in action. It’s hard to see in real-time, but we can pause it ‘n’ stuff to spot what’s wrong.”

Gamerboy80 took a few steps as the TV reflected back at the two, tapping the tablet to start the recording. Grayson felt his breathing hitch, a fearful twinge in his chest making his hands clutch the weapon.

The camera zoomed to a tribute, shakily holding an axe. Grayson felt a lump rise in his throat, staring at the mud-stained teenager. He tried not to look at their face.

His Mentor paused the clip. “You see, there?” He pointed to the tribute’s hands with the tablet. 

Grayson blinked, brain churning. “Yeah,” he sputtered, nervousness dripping from his voice. Confidence slowly seeped into his tone as he eyed the frame, staring at the tribute's amateur grip on the axe. “Her-- her hands are too low on the handle.”

“Bingo,” Gamerboy80 grinned, and Grayson felt a proud smile creep up his expression. “Holding it near the ends will make it feel like a stronger hit, but it’s ultimately harder to control.”

“It’s all about the strats,” Grayson replied in a sage tone, bringing up his fingers to rub the non-existent beard on his chin. 

His Mentor chuckled, pressing the tablet once more to start up the video again. As inconsequential the quip may have been, the Games would require strategy.

And Andrew speaks from experience. 

\--

Gamerboy80 tried to instill as many lessons as he could in the short span he had with Grayson.

“Adapting is somethin’ really hard,” he had said when the boy stared at his plate full of food. “You sometimes need to just… fake it ‘till you make it. By that time, you would’ve gotten a solid grasp on it. It’s not something that happens instantly. Just make it look like you’ve already solved the puzzle.”

“That really has nothing to do with food,” Grayson replied slowly, an agitation to his tone and a tired pigmentation to his eyes.

Gamerboy80 had sat there once, too-- clutching his stomach and refusing the food in fear he may vomit. 

“People say ‘know your enemy more than you know yourself’ -- or something like that-- but being aware of your own capabilities is handy knowledge,” he had said, opening a medicine kit. 

Grayson let out a groan. “Another one of your life-lessons, huh?” But he leaned closer to watch carefully. 

“Mhm,” his Mentor replied with a grin, unveiling a bandage. He saw the way Grayson nodded quickly with every sentence, blinking eyes trying to stay away. 

Gamerboy80 had stood there once, too-- nervously trying to retain every smidge of information thrown at him.

“And when you’re out there,” Grayson started, hands clutching the balcony’s railings, “how did you… really survive?”

And Andrew smiled at him; empty and lonely past the glitter in his cheeks. “None of us really do.”

Gamerboy80 had felt that once, too-- that fear of ruin. That fear of walking out a changed person. He clasped a hand on the teenager's back. 


	3. through the fear of being torn apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "strike three" by ferry
> 
> do i know how the interview works? only the slightest. do i still write about it? yes
> 
> also theres a little bit of pyro in there but he has like. two lines. so im probably not going to tag em

The insides of Andrew’s jacket were a glittery sequence that made his wrists itchy. He adjusted the headphones on his head, knuckle brushing against the microphone that extended from the left side. It was a showy headpiece; a sleek black with a neon underglow that slowly changed hues. Like other coats manufactured for his brand, a white embroidery trailed his upper back and crept behind his shoulders. A dragon.

A drink, stained a deep brown, was held in his hand. He sloshed the fizzy liquid inside the cup idly, though he didn’t take a sip.

It had only been a year since he ceremonially attended a gala. It felt longer. 

Low chatter wavered through the space, save for a few tipsy shouts. The gathering was held on a higher level-- walls replaced by expansive windows that peered down at the city below. Subdued lighting washed the party. A few waiters passed him, carrying trays of small food-samples. They didn’t pay him much mind.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Gamerboy80 relaxed his expression as he turned around. 

“Ahah-- And you look like a Mentor,” came the gruff voice of an elite, a gold smile staring at him. 

“It  _ is  _ ridiculously easy to tell, huh?” he quipped, a grin beginning to form. 

“Sure does! It looks like you just walked outta bed!” The man tuffled Gamerboy80’s dyed hair, scrambling the even split. 

“Y’know me, I’m never good lookin’ flashy.” 

And he laughed, and the man laughed, and they clinked drinks before the elite walked off. Gamerboy80 tightened his grip on the glass. 

His gaze lingered to the TV-- an absurdly large electronic broadcasting the interviews. The sound of an audience clapping sank through his headphones, and he watched the pop-up in the corner switch from "District 2" to "District 3".

The man couldn’t be sure if there were eyes on him, so he smiled when he watched Purpled enter the stage. 

  
The boy slumped into the seat as if it were the most roomy furniture in existence. Gamerboy80 watched the boy glance across the audience, giving a small wave and quirking a smile onto his lips. His sneakers tapped the flooring rhythmically. One of the shoe’s ties was undone. 

And Pyrocynical spoke. 

“Awfully cozy clothing you wear,” he commented with a smile, propping himself up closer to the teenager.

“What can I say? It’s super comfy!” 

Purpled made flowy hand movements as he spoke, oversized sweater sleeves leaving only his fingers visible. Gamerboy80 noticed his voice rise-- giddy, in a way. Perhaps fearfully. “Snug.”

“An endearing look.”

Gamerboy80 was thankful for Pyrocynical to do what he does best.

It’s hard to catch the audience’s reactions with the camera set up like this. But there’s a giggle executed from Purpled’s relaxed humor-- and the Mentor catches an elite smiling sweetly to the screen. 

He knew it was impossibly humid under those dazzling lights. 

The two banter as if they were old friends. Forty-seven seconds in, Purpled huffs dramatically and folds his arms. His brows furrow, staring at a camera with a frown. “Someone tell him to stop teasin’ me, yeah?” And the crowd goes wild.

“Alright, alright, settle down. Here’s the last one-- do you think you’re going to win?”

Purpled puffed his cheeks, letting an audible, “hmmm,” sound. 

“I wanna be humble here,” he starts, smiling. “I really, really do. But, Pyro, my man. I know I will.”

And Andrew knows how barely comfortable the plastic chair is; how the fluorescent lights reflect off the tile and glare into your eyes. And he knows how stifling the air-conditioning is managed, knows there's a darker stain on the velvet red curtains. 

It's painful to hear every year, and like each reiteration, he hopes that the tribute wins too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thats a wrap!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [lies like second nature](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29775903) by [soaring_lyrebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soaring_lyrebird/pseuds/soaring_lyrebird)




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